


Home Fires

by ConsultingWriter



Series: Home Fires [1]
Category: Sherlock (BBC), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby Hamish, Dragons, Fluff, M/M, NOT related to the Hobbit, Not Smauglock, Oh look-it turned into a series, Sherlock is a Dragon, because I kinda like this image, family moment, hatchling-Hamish, human-shaped dragon Sherlock, probably gonna be a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:27:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriter/pseuds/ConsultingWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamish is sick, a glimpse of life in the Watson-Holmes house hold. Sherlock is a dragon, Hamish is half-dragon.</p><p>  <i>“Now,” John said, leaning a hip against the table and fixing the brunette with a stare “What was this about ‘my son’?”</i><br/>“Before sunset, he’s your son,” Sherlock says plainly<br/>He doesn’t even need to be a genius to know John has rolled his eyes at that “When he sets things on fire, he’s your son; especially since I know he didn’t get that from my side of the family.”</p><p>(Edit: It's finally been beta'd!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Fires

**Author's Note:**

> I sat down to write the next installment of my Martin/John/Sherlock fic, but this came out instead. If you have a suggestion for a title, let me know!
> 
> Review, yeah?
> 
> EDIT: It's been beta'd! Yay!

Sherlock sighed in annoyance as the sniffles to his left continued at a steady rhythm. Hamish had caught the fire-flu from one of his drooling, sniveling cousins—and that was the last time Sherlock was letting Mycroft convince (blackmail) him to take Hamish to Mummy’s house while the others, whom Sherlock hated because they were boring socialites, were there—and his human genes made taking the correct medicine possibly lethal, so it was decided that the Watson-Holmes would just have to wait it out.

A sneeze and a bright flare causes him to sigh again and look up from his experiment, his eye twitched at being interrupted but he chuckled when he caught sight of the pot of potatoes that John had skinned and chopped earlier for dinner that evening. It was now on fire.

“John!” He called, turning back to his experiment. “John!”

Feet pounded down the hallway from the bedroom and Sherlock listened to his mate curse at him sleepily.

“What, Sherlock, what?” John snapped tiredly.

The Consulting Detective simply lifted a hand and pointed to the pot, never looking up from his experiment. “Your son set the pot on fire.”

Another sneeze and flare and so was the corner of the plastic table cover Sherlock had pread out—John had informed him that the table had to be kept sanitary once Sherlock had presented him with their egg to fertilize—and the detective heard his mate sigh and the sink running.

Twin hisses let the detective know the fires were out.

“Now,” John said, leaning a hip against the table and fixing the brunette with a stare “What was this about ‘my son’?”

“Before sunset, he’s _your_ son,” Sherlock said plainly.

He doesn’t even need to be a genius to know John has rolled his eyes at that. “When he sets things on fire, he’s your son; especially since I know he didn’t get that from my side of the family.”

Sherlock snorted. “Of course not, your genes are dull.”

John lifted an eyebrow but whatever witty comment he was getting ready to let fly was cut off by an angered growl and baby fists hitting aggravatedly at the edge of his peach fuzz hairline.

“Oh, oh,” John murmured soothingly, pulling the baby’s hands away from his head. “Yes, yes,” the doctor shushed the growling babe. “I know it hurts, your father said it’ll be tender for a bit.”

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and watched his mate bounce their hatchling on his hip as he tried to comfort him. After a moment of watching he stood from his chair and walked to the refrigerator. He opened the door and pulled out a cold, half frozen wash cloth and walked over to his mate and drakeling, setting the clothing on the baby’s head and gently smoothing his hand over it.

“Mummy said she used to do this when my horn’s started growing in, the cold numbs the area a bit and the roughness of the soft cloth soothes the hurt. She said it also works for teething and Grand-mere swears by it,” he gave as an explanation when John shot him a curious look.

John smiled and reached his hand up, placing it gently in his lover’s hair and running his thumb over the large bump where his horns broke out of his scalp slightly—and wasn’t that a shock, finding out that your lover’s hair was so long because it covered black little _horns_ that stuck out about half an inch from his skin.

“We’re going to have to force him to wear a toboggan when we go out aren’t we?” John asked, frowning down at his son’s head; that would be a joy, Hamish hated having anything on his head and would try to yank the hat off the moment they put it on.

“Until his hair grows out,” Sherlock hummed in confirmation, he ducked out of the way seconds before the wrinkling of Hamish’s nose signaled another sneeze coming on. The fiery glob shot over his shoulder and landed smack-dab in the middle of the table. The fire died and the glob was left to smolder. Sherlock pulled away from John and Hamish and investigated the glob silently before turning back to his pair.

“It seems that his human genes haven’t affected his healing rate, he’s at the last stage of the ‘flu’ and should be better by the evening.”

John rolled his eyes at the first part of the sentence but leaned over the table to look at the smoldering gunk on the table as well.

“Is that… mucus?” John asked, blinking at the gooey mess on the plastic table cover.

“Yes, the term ‘flu’ really is a misnomer; it’s really more of an inflammation of the lungs—similar to pneumonia, if one were to make a comparison to human diseases.”

The doctor nodded his head. “His mucus isn’t always going to catch on fire, right? That’s only ‘cause he’s sick?”

The dragon nodded. “Only the fire-flu will cause something like this to happen, and even when he gets older it will not be as much because he’ll have more control over his lungs.”

“Well that’s good, I would hate for him to set someone on fire because he sneezed on him,” John commented with a smile, his life really was so bizarre sometimes. When Hamish started to fuss, John handed him to Sherlock and moved to prepare a bottle. At least some things were similar to what other parents went through.

Sherlock held his hatchling close to his chest and let out a rumbling purr, causing the babe to quiet while John made the bottle. When Hamish had first hatched the dragon had worried that the drakeling wouldn’t bond with John because the soldier couldn’t perform basic dragon bonding rituals (such as purring or fire sharing), but the small doctor had held his own and bonded with the half dragonling in other ways—humming and rocking the babe and bundling and curling around Hamish on his and Sherlock’s bed which helped the child grow used to his smell. Now the bond between John and Hamish was just as strong as the bond between the drakeling and Sherlock.

John watched his mate calm his child with soft eyes. When he had been a young man he had dreamed of a wife and child, maybe even a dog as well, but never in his wildest fantasies could he have pictured the beautiful sight before his eyes. His tall, fair, dark haired lover cuddling their blonde haired child to his chest—John secretly hoped that Hamish had his hair, some proof that his baby was his as well, not just a Sherlock clone, but a mix of both of them.

When the baby began to fuss again, however, the doctor moved to hand his mate the bottle.

“Someone’s getting fussy, seems like its nap time for someone, yeah?” John murmured, stroking the infant’s head.

Sherlock shot his mate an amused look. “Are you talking about him, or you?”

A soft punch to the dragon’s chest was John’s response.

Soon Hamish’s sucking slowed and ended and the drakeling let out a quiet, stuttering purr, letting his parents know how content he was.

The dragon sat the babe upright and pat him gently on the back, trying to get the infant to burp. When the only thing his efforts gained was a waffling snort he passed the drakeling to his mate—John always had more luck getting Hamish to burp—and then turned back to his experiment.

Once the task was finished John turned and made his way towards their bedroom. Halfway towards the hallway the doctor stopped and looked over his shoulder at his husband. “Are you coming?”

Sherlock paused, still leaning over his microscope, and stood motionless before straightening up and nodding at his mate.

Trailing his mate and hatchling down the hall he pursed his lips as the skin on his back began to crawl and the bones beneath began to shift. Holding back a groan of pain as muscles shifted and pulled, the dragon swiftly unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall to the floor behind him, clamping his jaw shut tight as his wings forced their way out of his back. He sighed in relief and flexed the wings once the bones and skin stopped shifting.

When he reached the bedroom he stopped just inside the door jam and leaned against it, simply observing his mate as the doctor fitted their hatchling in a light blue onsie and then swaddled him in a blanket before curling his own body around the infant. Sherlock smiled, just a gentle upwards curl, and climbed in the bed behind his mate; draping his wings protectively across his family as he himself fell into a light sleep, just aware enough to notice if anyone tried to get into the flat, always ready to protect his mate and drakeling.

 


End file.
